Before I Die
by Jennifer Apple
Summary: Ginny is diagnosed with a deadly condition: her immune system is destroying her magic and her vital organs along with it. There is no cure. So, Ginny decides to make a list, of ten things she has to do before her fast approaching death.
1. The Fall

**CHAPTER 1**

**THE FALL**

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><p>The October weather came as a relief to the senses: wide, clean and austere under the late morning sun. A gentle wind blew through the quickly-browning leaves. The air was cool. Early frosts had already tinged the grass on the Quidditch pitch with scarlet. Small flocks of late-migrating birds fluttered restlessly over the stands, their calls drowned by the cheers, boos and whistles of the crowd.<p>

"And with that superb goal from Mannhart, that's one-seventy – fifty to the Harpies!" The ever present buzz from the crowd grew to a roar. "And that's Melhusih with the quaffle!"

Melhusih was small and squat, crouched over the quaffle like some grotesque gargoyle. He had a hooked nose, hunched shoulders and an evil expression. It was going to be easy to intercept his throw; Melhuish's tactic was to hold onto the quaffle as long as possible – a firm advantage to me.

"Melhusih dodges a bludger and – ooh!" the crowd gasped, "interception by Weasely! Harpies have the quaffle!" I winked at Melhuish, who gave me a terrible leer. I felt like laughing. The ugly goblin could TRY to get me back for that, but I wouldn't give him the chance.

"Mannhart! Weasley! Morgan! Mannhart! Weasley!" Neatly dodges a bludger and – SHE SCORES! AGAIN! HER TENTH THIS MATCH!"

I grinned wickedly at the orange-clad keeper who was scowling at me. I could feel the crowd swelling around me, and their answering appreciation of the goal hit my ears like a clap of thunder. _It __was __for __this,_I thought, high-fiving a passing Regina Mannhart. _This __is __why __I __play __Quidditch._I turned my broom and prepared for play to recommence. _The __cheers __of __the __crowd._

"Melhusih back in possession, passes to Foster! Dennen! Foster! Intercepted by Morgan!" I changed course and hastened to back up my team-mates. By leaning low over my broom, I accelerated towards Mannhart and Morgan, who desperately needed my help further up the pitch.

"Morgan throws to Mannhart who – ooh! Takes a bludger to the CHEST from Freud and DROPS THE QUAFFLE! Foster takes possession, Mel – HAS AUTUMN SEEN THE SNITCH?"

I swivelled in the air and felt the familiar 'whoosh' of air as Vera Autumn flew past me. I searched ahead of her and saw it, just above the opposing team's hoops – the golden snitch. It glinted innocently in the sun, flying serenely up towards the clouds. Game play seemed to freeze and the crowd drew its collective breaths. All eyes were upon Autumn and her opponent, Nash.

Autumn was closest, she reached out her hand to grab it, the snitch was fifteen, ten feet away. But Nash was gaining on her, he too reached out. They were neck and neck, only a few feet…

"COME ON VERA!" I yelled.

Autumn made a swiping movement with her outstretched hand and – "YES!" Autumn shouted.

The crowd's noise reached its crescendo. I streaked towards Vera, the other Harpies hot on my tail. I collided happily with Vera and enveloped her in a huge hug. I felt Regina's arms wrap around my shoulders, and Emily Morgan squeezed my waist. We piled in upon Vera until all of the team was in an airborne embrace. We were a mass of dark green and gold, each of us screaming our elation. _We__won_. Euphoria was the only word to describe this feeling.

And then it happened. As if I was in a dream, everything grew bright. Vera's blonde turned yellow, the deep green of the robes was lime. Bright white light filled my eyes, like the light from a Patronus.

Suddenly, I felt very light-headed. I closed my eyes in the hope that the dizzy spell would go away - but that was a big mistake. Instantaneously, all my muscles relaxed. I felt the broom between my legs drop away, plummeting to the earth. The only reason I didn't follow it was that Emily and Regina's hold on me tightened at once. My head rolled back.

What was that shouting in my ears? Was it the crowd? Or was it Emily shouting for help? Why were they making such a noise? I was so drowsy. It was so nice just to lie here in my friends' arms. They should all be quiet, so I could just go to sleep…

It surprised me when I found myself on the grass. I could feel its stalks spiking my fingers, making them tingle ominously. It was still coated with the remnants of the frost, dampening my Quidditch robes. It struck me how short the felt, rather like the top of a shaved head, or the stubble of a man's beard: bristly.

It took me a moment to open my eyes, for they felt dry as the grass was wet. There was a lot of panicked yelling, so I tried to haul myself up, and see what on earth the racket was for.

"No, Gin!" someone unknown said, and pushed me back to the grass. "EMILY FOR GOD'S SAKE, GET HER A FUCKING HEALER!"

There was something deadly wrong. Why were my arms so heavy? Why did my head feel like it was made of stone? Why were my eyelids closing, as though I had no control over them? I wanted to ask, but my tongue had glued itself to the roof of my mouth, my lips cemented together. Why wouldn't my mouth open?

"Everything's going to be alright, Gin. Emily's just gone after Vera, they'll bring some Mediwitches. Stay with me, now, Gin," the voice said. It was kind, low, but most definitely a woman's. I knew I should recognise it. The deep vibrations were familiar…

Oh, it was Gwen. I could see her blurry face if I really concentrated, but it would be so much easier to succumb to the blurry black on the edges of my mind. I COULD just go back to sleep, if I really wanted. I let my lids fall shut. Blackness enveloped my view.

But she did say to stay awake, didn't she? And she WAS my captain, my heroine… at least I think she was… Anyways, I should probably do as she said. She had an unquestionable air of authority about her. Firm voice, firm grip on my arm.

I could sense a flurry of movement all round me, and the sounds were blurred into one loud buzz. Like a crowd watching Quidditch. Quidditch… who had won the match?

Opening my eyes again, I battled with myself to keep Gwen's toffee-coloured skin in view. I couldn't hope on focussing on her features, so I kept to the colours. Brown skin, black eyes, black hair, green robes. There was so much green. Green robes, green grass, green eyes.

Green eyes?

Harry's eyes!

"Ginny! Ginny!" I heard him say, as if from a great distance. I felt him brush the hair from my face. From far away it seemed, murmuring from more unknown voices swelled in my ear, as if we were all underwater.

I could see more colours. There was still green, brown, black, but now I could see blue, red and orange too. "She's come around again," a high-pitched voice said.

More movement. People twittered and fluttered around me like the flocks of birds flying over the pitch earlier. _Had __I __fallen __unconscious __again __just __now?_

I felt my unbelievably heavy body heaved upright, and they leant me against someone. Their strong arms wrapped around my body, holding me close. I recognised those hands.

Oh, Harry.

"No! Ginny, please, stay with me!" he said. Someone had just said that earlier. Why couldn't I remember it? Just a few seconds ago felt like a distant memory. What was wrong with me?

Maybe I was just tired. Oh, I was so tired.

"Come on, Gin!" Gwen gave my arm a little shake, as though she could shake off the lethargic feel steeling over me.

_Just __give __me __a __minute, _I silently told them. _Just __a __minute. __I__'__m __not __dying, __I __promise._

I closed my eyes once more…

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><p><strong>Hello lovely readers! What do you think? Please review?<br>Oh, and are there any beta readers out there with a bit of medical knowledge? I'd like to know what happens when each of your major organs malfunction. But enough with the spoilers!  
>Thanks for all the great response so far! I love you guys :')<strong>


	2. St Mungo's

CHAPTER 2

ST MUNGO'S

"Here we are, oopsy-daisy! Rise and shine, sweetheart!" a voice said. _Who __the __hell __was __that_?

I opened my eyes groggily, and it struck me how very clean everything was. White, clean, clinical. I could make out a plain ceiling, pale blue curtains and a muggle light bulb. It was too bright, so I screwed my eyes up, defying the dawn. I groaned. _Where __on earth __am __I?_

I decided, on the spot, that the only way to find out who was there, and where I was, was to sit up. I did so, and a wave of nausea washed over me. _Oh__Christ_.

"Alright, sweetheart, gently does it, there we go! You might feel a bit sick!" the cheery voice said again. _No __shit, __Sherlock, _I thought, and sniggered slightly. _God, __I __amuse __myself._

I reopened my eyes, looked around and with a jolt of comprehension, I realised where I was. There was only one place in Britain that had that many beds, that many curtains and that much white. I'd been here a couple of times before, but only ever to visit. Once for George when he swallowed mum's hair-potion, for a second time to visit dad when he was attacked by that disgusting snake, and once more when George bewitched his ears to flap and couldn't work out a counter curse. I'd never been in here for more than two hours, never stayed over night. I'd never had the chance to lie in one of the beds.

St Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries. _Ah_.

The woman next to me was small, round and dusty. Her thick, frizzy hair was flecked with grey, pulled back into a bun which sat on the nape of her neck. Her eyes were glossy and beady, a deep brown colour. She was wearing deep blue robes, the robes of a nurse. She twittered around me, like the small bird she so resembled, flapping her hands, telling me to lie back and have a drink.

I propped my pillows up against the metal headboard and shuffled up the bed, so I could sit back in a more elegant position. I had a bedside table, and upon it were the glass of water the nurse had mentioned, and a massive arrangement of flowers, cards and chocolates. I felt my stomach rumble. _Oh,__I__would__LOVE__a__piece__of__chocolate__right__now._

As I reached out to open one of the many boxes, something jogged my memory. The image of my hand held aloft brought some strange memory back to me, with the force of a fired pistol.

_Why were my arms so heavy? Why did my head feel like it was made of stone? Why were my eyelids closing, as though I had no control over them?_

"Oh my God!" I said, staring at my hand. My voice sounded thick and rusty, and that triggered another memory.

_I wanted to ask, but my tongue had glued itself to the roof of my mouth, my lips cemented together. Why wouldn't my mouth open?_

"What's wrong, dear?" the nurse asked, looking at me concernedly. Without realising, I clutched my hand to my neck, as if I was approaching the chopping block. My eyes opened wide, and I looked up into the face of the nurse.

"What the HELL happened to me?" I asked, practically shouting.

The nurse looked shiftily to the right and left. The other few patients were looking around, curious to see what was going on. There were maybe five other people in the ward, all with a variety of symptoms. Each and every one looked hideous, some with green pock marks all over their faces, others with yellowing skin, purple hair. They were grotesque monsters, staring at me, unblinkingly. My stomach churned again.

"I… I…" the nurse hesitated, seemingly unsure about what she was allowed tell me. "I'll get healer Murray," she decided, and toddled off.

I lay back in the bed and crossed my arms. _Only __a __moment __ago, __I __couldn__'__t __move __them __to __save __my __life_. The thought disturbed me deeply, and I attempted to distract myself.

"What are YOU looking at?" I demanded of the old man in the bed opposite me, who was stealing peaks at the red-haired girl who had scared the nurse away by shouting. He grunted apologetically and lifted his newspaper, blocking his face.

Slightly annoyed, I grabbed one of the boxes of chocolates and tore off the wrappings. I discarded the little piece of paper telling me the flavours and shoved three of the tiny sweets in my mouth. Why on earth did they make the chocolates so small? I was starving!

I polished off the entire top layer, licking my fingers unashamedly. I would have started the next layer, but my head snapped up automatically at the sound of footsteps. Ugly faces popped up from behind their books to see who was coming.

The nurse, who had been here before, came into the ward, followed by two healers. One was extremely tall, tanned and bespectacled. He had a very George Clooney-ish look about him; his greying hair and laughter lines greatly enhanced his features. He was dressed in the customary robes of the Mungo's healers, lime green, and carrying a clipboard. I guessed this was Healer Murray, because I recognised the other healer.

I viewed him with a twinge of horror and embarrassment: Blaise Zabini. He was just as tall as I remembered, just as muscular and just as… dare I say it? Attractive? Not handsome like Harry was, but perilous, striking, untouchable. But he also looked tired, and all the swagger and self-importance that I could remember had miraculously disappeared. He was wearing trainee-healers' robes, a turquoise colour, which did not suit him at all. He appeared to be shadowing Healer Murray.

"Ah, Miss Weasley, I see you've met Nurse Jenna," Healer Murray said, glancing down at the clipboard before meeting my eyes. He smiled at me and I felt myself warming to him.

"Err, yes. Nurse Jenna," I confirmed, glancing at her. She gave a merry wave. Of course, her job was just to look the epitome of good health and spirits, to give the other patients something to aspire to. She was hired, no doubt, for the thickness of her hair and her happy-go-lucky attitude.

"And this is Healer Zabini. He's my assistant today," Healer Murray said, gesturing to Zabini.

"Ah, we've met before," Zabini cut in, giving me an indifferent nod. I grinned right back at him. Zabini looked away hastily. _Yeah__Zabini,__because__you__'__re__so__talented__…__at__posing..._That random memory wanted to make me laugh, but I had more pressing matters at hand.

"What's happened to me?" I asked of Healer Murray.

A small crease appeared between his eyebrows and he looked down at the chart again. After perusing it for a few seconds, he said, "We're not sure… but we're going to run a few more tests on you, just to confirm some aspects of your condition, and you should know by tomorrow. For now, we're going to transfer you to a private room. Mr Potter insisted."

"Oh, okay, brilliant," I said gratefully, silently thankful I was going to leave this room of diseased monsters behind. "So, do you think it's serious? Whatever made me fall off my broom?"

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Zabini make a sudden, apparently involuntary movement. His arms and lip twitched an infinitesimal amount, and when I looked at him, he tried to pull it off as an innocent fidget. Murray glanced to him, giving Zabini a warning look, and Zabini looked down at the floor apologetically. I watched this exchange in frank bewilderment.

"We can't be sure, but I wouldn't worry. We think it's a magical disease you have, and whatever it is, it's rare. We'll no doubt find a cure, but for now, Nurse Jenna will help you move into one of the private rooms. We will come and take a blood sample for testing in about half an hour. Any more questions, Miss Weasley?" Murray briskly enquired.

"No," I said slowly, trying to catch Zabini's eye. I was hoping to get another clue to why he had reacted so strangely when I asked how serious my condition was, but when Zabini didn't look up from his guilty contemplation of the floor, I gave up.

"But you can call me Ginny," I added to Healer Murray as he turned to go. He laughed, and gestured to Zabini to follow him. They left the room in a swirl of green and turquoise robes, and I stared after them. A mixture of curiosity and annoyance mixed in my mind.

"Well, Miss Weasley, shall we get you out of bed? We'll go now to your room, and I'll move all your presents after we have you settled. Would you like a hand?" Nurse Jenna clucked. Smiling, I thought of my mother, and how similar they were.

"Nurse Jenna? When are the visiting hours?" I asked.

"Ooh, well, two till five, and six-thirty till eight-thirty on weekdays. On weekends family can also come from ten to twelve. Mr Potter, Miss Granger and Mr Weasley were here earlier when you were asleep, but they were coming back at six thirty, so you'll see them then," Nurse Jenna said.

I nodded and wordlessly got out of bed, (with a little help from Nurse Jenna, because my legs were a tad wobbly) and was helped out of the room.

Walking, it seemed, had become a very difficult task for me; my legs didn't want to move as they should. Occasionally, the muscles just gave in, making my knees buckle, or else they simply refused to move at all. We tottered and tripped, and I got dizzy again a couple of times. Each time I thought I was going to fall, Nurse Jenna was there, grasping me under my arms and telling me to "Take a couple of deep breaths, pet".

Slowly but surely, we stumbled into the corridor and down the hallway. It was much more effort than it ought have been, but we eventually managed to complete the short journey to one of the little rooms set aside for me.

The room was tiny in comparison to the big ward I had been on, but it was by no means uncomfortable. There was a bed similar to the one I had occupied before, but it was covered with pale blue sheets instead of white, and there were no curtains around it. The walls had been painted with magnolia, and a couple of moth-eaten armchairs of the same colour were arranged in the corner.

Nurse Jenna happily helped me into the bed, and scurried away to collect my belongings. Once Nurse Jenna had brought them, I started reading some of the cards I had been sent. They were from a variety of people: fans who had been at the match, my teammates, my family. However, their words simply washed over me, and none of them registered in my mind. There were too many angry questions occupying my thoughts.

What was that between Zabini and Murray? How long had I been out of it if Harry, Ron and Hermione had already been to see me? And what on earth had even HAPPENED to make me be here?

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><p><strong>Righto, chaps. This was not the easiest chapter to write, and I bloody hate that last bit. But the next chapter <span>should<span>be a lot more informative about what's happened to Ginny.  
>Looking forward to see what you have to say, guys :3 Please review!<strong>

**So far I've have such lovely feedback. It want to thank you again for reviewing!**


	3. Answers

**CHAPTER 3**

**ANSWERS**

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><p>What I will never understand about the Hogwarts' houses is that people seem to think there were no overlaps. You see, that's what I don't like about the sorting. People instantly assume that you have one set of characteristics and not another. If you're a Ravenclaw, you're obviously incredibly intelligent and witty, but no one would think that you could be brave too. Well, enter Luna. One of the bravest witches I know, and she's a Ravenclaw. Then there's Ron, who is so incredibly loyal to Harry and Hermione that he should be in Hufflepuff, but the sorting hat decided that he should be a Gryffindor. And Hermione, who is, undoubtedly, the brightest witch of our lifetime. Ravenclaw? Nope.<p>

And now me. Gryffindors are brave, chivalrous, daring – all definitely me. But would a Gryffindor ever have Slytherin qualities too? Well, they can, but no one would expect it. Weasels can be cunning and ambitious too, and I pride myself on that.

When Dr Murray had returned to take some blood for testing, he had given me no clue, and Blaise hadn't come back, so I couldn't pressure him into telling me. I had felt too guilty to coerce Nurse Jenna, as she was too kind, too happy (and I also suspected she knew nothing anyways).

So I formulated myself a plan. When my visitors came, I would find a way to prove my suspicions – that there really was something seriously wrong with me. Maybe if I confronted them after I'd confirmed it, they'd tell me what had really happened.

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><p>"Evening, sleeping beauty," someone said, and I looked up from the evening Prophet to see four of my most favourite people in the world standing in the doorway. George, carrying what looked like a bunch of honking daffodils and a toilet seat. Hermione, her chestnut hair as bushy as ever, wearing an expression of concern and curiosity. Ron, holding onto Hermione's waist as though scared he might loose her. And Harry: perfect, wonderful Harry.<p>

"Hi, guys," I said, closing the newspaper and grinning at them. They came in, looking around, seemingly impressed with the private room that Harry had bagged for me.

George pulled up on of the chairs to the bed and presented me with my presents. It was indeed a toilet seat, and a sad September morning of many years ago was stirred from my memory.

"Thanks, George," I said, grinning at him.

Hermione took them from me and placed them on the low-slung coffee table which was now the home of my other flowers, cards and gifts. She too pulled up on the armchairs and motioned for Ron and Harry to do the same.

"How are you?" Hermione asked as she did so. Her brows were furrowed and head cocked slightly to the left as it was when she was presented with a difficult problem.

I guessed she meant medically, so I answered, "Not bad. A few dizzy spells when I walk and I feel sick occasionally," I said, then continued in a offhand tone, "Nothing a good night's sleep and a Pepper-Up potion can't fix."

_Oh, I am sly, _I thought, as I studied their faces for any signs of confusion or worry. _I should have been a Slytherin – sneaky, wonderful Slytherin._ And sure enough, Ron and George quickly exchanged a glance and Harry's jaw twitched terribly. Only Hermione managed to mask her feelings.

_So, _I concluded, as Ron quickly changed the subject, _There IS something the healers haven't told me. Something important I don't know. _

Something boiled in me like hot lava, spitting and bubbling until a familiar sensation gripped me. Anger. How dare they keep secrets from me? It was downright contemptible, not to mention morally wrong. _I'm twenty years old, not some child! _Here they were again, just like at the Final Battle, trying to protect me from danger, although I was perfectly capable. What right did they have, to know what had happened, and yet refuse to tell me? Not that they had refused, I suppose. But _not-telling_ is the same as _lying_ in my books.

"How long have I been in hospital?" I asked abruptly, interrupting Ron's talk about Quidditch. My tone was angrier than I had planned, and I felt a wash of shame douse my anger, but only briefly. I watched Hermione's jaw fall open slightly, Ron's ears turn red and George blink a few times. They all looked at each other, at least, Ron, George and Hermione did. Harry, however, gazed directly at me.

"Three days," he said, so quietly, it was almost a whisper. It was a heartbreaking, drained, miserable sound, thick from sleep deprivation and worry. His face, upon closer inspection, was pale and drawn; bruise coloured bags drooped from weary, blood-shot eyes. They were no longer bright emeralds, gleaming from behind his glasses. Those were not the eyes I had seen after the Quidditch match… _could it really be three days ago_?

"Three days?" I repeated, slowly. All emotion suddenly evaporated from me; I was left with nothing, nothing but a pounding in my head and a faint sense of disbelief. I almost missed the anger - this emptiness was so awful.

"Yeah," George said, looking at me almost apologetically, as if it was his fault I was here.

When I couldn't put my thoughts into words, Hermione did so for me, in the way only Hermione could. "You fell unconscious on the fourth of October, and you were pretty unresponsive for the rest of that day, and the night. At about two in the morning on the fifth, you started to show increased brain activity, so they injected some kind of stimulating potion into you. It's quite a fascinating concoction actually – a mixture of the base of a Pepper Up potion and essence of mandrake, and – "

"That didn't work," Ron said, interrupting Hermione from going into too much detail.

"No, you just remained as you were. So they left you for a while, doing regular check ups, and it seemed as though you were… waking up, extremely slowly. So they got different nurses to stay with you at all times, in case you woke up. They mapped your brain activity on a graph, so they could try to foresee when you were going to regain consciousness. They predicted you were to wake up today, and… they were right," Hermione said, giving me a small smile.

There was a long pause whilst everyone thought about what Hermione said. Her words were reeling through my confused mind, and though they rang true, I could not comprehend it. I suddenly couldn't stand it any longer, and spoke.

"How can it have been three days! I don't believe it," I said, sitting up more upright and giving them all one of my blazing looks. This must be some sort of joke. Some terrible, heinous joke intended to stop me questioning them. They were all going to burst out laughing, and shake their heads. Of course, it would be George's doing, and he'd sit there, smug as anything. Tears would roll down Hermione's cheeks, Ron would go as red as a tomato and Harry would stop looking so bloody _solemn._

Even as I saw this in my mind, they all nodded. Harry reached over and picked up the Prophet I had just been reading. He flicked to the front page and leant across to show me what was printed there.

Emblazoned across the headline was some headline about inflation of the galleon, and a few side stories in a strip down the right hand side. A picture of a goblin leered up at me, its ugly face contorted with irritation and aggravation. There was nothing that would interest me.

"What…" I mumbled, then I realised what Harry meant. He was showing me the date.

'_7 October 2001.'_

"Oh," I said, my voice barely more than a whisper. _Oh._

"Sorry, Ginny. We should have told you right out," Ron said.

"The healers didn't want to say anything until they were _sure_ of what was wrong. But it'll be alright, won't it?" George asked. I suppose those words were meant to comfort me, but George's expression was that of a child looking for guidance. He didn't know. He wanted someone to tell him it would be.

So for the first time since I was admitted to this hospital, I confronted the possibility that it _wasn't _going to be alright, that something _deadly serious_ happened to me. That terrible prospect hit me like an ice cold wind, chilling me right to the bone. Three days…

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><p>There was a great deal of light, it seemed to me. Floods of silver-grey sun filtered through the white curtains that stirred in the sweet breeze. A smell of rotting leaves and apples festered in the air, and the insistent buzzing of an insect, trapped. I fixed my eyes upon Healer Murray, standing at the end of the bed, who managed to smile at me without moving a muscle.<p>

Mum was sitting on my right and Harry on my left, and it was difficult to say who looked most worried. Mum, of course, was performing her normal mother-hen act, constantly smoothing down her robes and my hair with quivering hands, making clucking noises about how thin I was. Harry was gently holding my hand, our intertwined fingers resting on the bed sheets, but I could tell he was uneasy. He had problems with displaying his emotions sometimes, but he was fidgeting a bit too much, and his breathing was slightly quicker than usual – sure signs he was anxious.

The buzzing continued. I scanned the high windows of my room, trying to locate the insect. The noise was unreasonably disturbing, especially when tensions were so high. We were just waiting for Dad to arrive, and then Dr Murray could begin.

After a moment's more searching, I found the shadow of a bumblebee, trapped between the curtain and the window, batting itself against the glass. I gulped, watching it making its way up the window, frantically trying to find a way out. A wave of claustrophobia broke over me, and I thought of going over to help it out. Then I remembered how difficult it was to walk, so I looked away.

"Sorry I'm late!" Dad said, rushing into the room looking flustered. He still had his ministry robes on, and was carrying his battered briefcase in one hand and his hat in the other. He hastily sat in the armchair next to Mum's.

"It's fine, Mr Weasley. Is anyone else coming?" Healer Murray asked me. I shook my head, fixing my gaze upon him. Murray had deep green eyes, evoking images of deep forest pools, blossoms of mud and algae. They were murky, impossible to read. Happy? Relieved? Or apologetic?

"Well, we can begin," Healer Murray said, moving to the door and closing it gently.

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><p><strong>I like this chapter more than the last one I hope you do too.<strong>

**I've had great response so far, p****lease keep on reviewing. I hate asking, because I _know_ it's annoying, but how else can I improve?**


	4. Diagnosis

**CHAPTER 4**

**DIAGNOSIS**

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><p>It struck me how colourless and lifeless everybody looked. Mum and Dad had soft grey hair now, and they both had aged expressions from fatigue and worry. Harry's skin still hadn't lost its pallor, and even his black hair didn't seem as dark to me that day. Only Healer Murray was colourful, in his vibrant lime green robes, frankly a jester in comparison to my family. But his expression was so solemn and grave, it was hard to imagine he was about to come out with some joke to lighten the gloomy mood.<p>

Everything was in contrast with the brightness of the sky outside, the slowly setting sun.

"Miss Weasley," Healer Murray began. "You were admitted to us on the fourth of October. It appeared to our staff that you had only fainted, as you were not showing any symptoms of a more serious disease. After a few quick, routine checks, all the signs indicated that you had merely…fallen into a deep sleep. We were not concerned, so we just administered the standard reviving potions."

I nodded slowly. Murray's dark green eyes scanned our grey, upturned faces, and his brow furrowed slightly. His hand gripped the bedstead.

"However…they did not work. We were stumped; we could not identify any problems such as foreign micro-organisms in your body which would make you reject the potions, yet you remained, as ever, in a deep sleep."

"And I didn't wake up until three days later, I know, Healer Murray." I was bored now. Tired of hearing the same story over and over, from Harry, Hermione and my own thoughts. "But can you tell me why?"

Healer Murray nodded, let go of the bed, and walked over to the window. He stood, looking out to the hospital's small garden. I could see his silhoette. Hands on his hips, he looked like a super hero. Was he going to save the day?

"It is not good news. Something is…attacking your body from the inside. Destroying your whole body. That's why you fell unconscious four days ago; you were excited and frenzied, in a place with lots of magic. Your immune system shut everything down."

I was confused, and not the only one.

"Something is 'attacking' her body? But I thought you said there was no disease in her?" said Harry.

"What does the magic have to do with it?" Dad asked.

Mum grasped my free hand (the other was held by Harry) and pulled her chair closer to me. She pressed her knee against mine. I swallowed hard, fighting the impulse to get up and walk out. _If I don't listen, then I won't know what he's going to say_, I thought. _Then, maybe it won't be true_.

Healer Murray sighed and turned his back on the bright, early-evening sky to face us. His eyes, though bright, were tired. His voice was very firm.

"Miss Weasley," he said. "I'm afraid I cannot explain to you sufficiently, but I can tell you what we have deduced from the tests. I cannot deny this is the most serious case I have ever encountered.

"Your immune system, for some reason, had decided that your magic is a foreign entity - like a virus - which must be destroyed. It had developed an enzyme which is terminating your cells which contain magic."

"Is that bad?" I asked in a hollow voice, making a little, pathetic joke.

He didn't laugh. "It's very bad, Miss Weasley. Your magic is an integral part of _all _your bodily cells. It runs through your blood, bone and organs. Your immune system is destroying your magic, and your vital organs along with it."

The room seems a lot darker now. Through the window, in front of which Murray was standing, I could see the tops of two trees. I could see their branches, their dying leaves, a bit of sky. It was a strange colour now, no longer light and clear from late afternoon sun. Cherry and charcoal all at once, like it was bleeding out.

"The signs are that your body is now shutting itself down as instinct, so you don't perform accidental magic. You see, magic and emotions are seriously entwined. That is why young children perform magic without their meaning to, when they are happy or upset."

"At the match, I was…euphoric. I hadn't been that happy in ages," I said quietly. I looked down at my hands; one was entwined with Harry's, one was clasped by my mother.

"Precisely. High emotion, high magic in your body, you fall unconscious.

"Also, you were in a magical area at the Quidditch match, seeing as there were all these anti-muggle spells enclosing the area. Similarly, you are in an extremely magical place right now, what with all the magical cures and diseases around you. That is possibly why you are finding that you get dizzy when you walk. If you leave the hospital, you may find your physical wellbeing increases for the time being, your condition may even be, briefly, unnoticeable."

All of this was irrelevant. To me, they were minor details, although interesting, like a side story in an epic novel. He hadn't got to the point. He was dillydallying again, just as he was when he was running more tests. I bet he knew all along, he just wanted to play it safe, wanted to make sure. Well I was fed up. _Tell me_.

"Will I get better?" The question hung in the air, the tension as thick as syrup. I waited for Healer Murray's answer, staring at him straight in the eye. He wouldn't meet mine. Tears had slowly begun to cascade down Mum's cheeks, and Harry's grip had become painful. Waiting, on tenterhooks, for Healer Murray to tell us it was all going to be okay. _Please. Let it be okay._

"There is…no known cure. This condition is… indisputably fatal."

A thought stabbed up, growing from my toes and ripping through me, until it stifled everything else and became the only thing in my mind. _It can't be true._

Mum was trying unsuccessfully not to cry. Dad's grief seemed to be beyond tears. "What happens now?" Mum asked, great silent tears falling like rain onto her lap. Healer Murray handed her a tissue.

The healer said, "Miss Weasley may respond to some experimental intensive treatment. I would suggest that she remained here in the hospital until we can be sure that this therapy will be successful. However, it will significantly lower her standard of comfort, and it will not change the outcome."

Healer Murray kept on talking, going on about some potion trials, how they probably won't help me in the short term, but will give me a little more time. Harry was still clutching my hand, Mum was still silently crying and Dad kept on listening but my mind blocked it all out.

A second idea came bubbling from the deep. It flooded out the denial with unbelievable force. It filled me up like water, like a silent scream. _It's not fair. I don't want to die like this._

It seemed clear to me. I almost felt hopeful, which was mad. _I want to live before I die. _

It was the only thing that made sense. How long could I stave it off? I didn't know. All I knew was that I had two choices: undertake this therapy or find some way to get on with living.

"How long would I have with and without the therapy and trials?" I asked abruptly, interrupting Healer Murray mid-sentence. He pounced on my question.

"With the trials, I estimate eleven months. Without… you would have six months."

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><p><strong>Thank you all again! And all those who favourited the story - cheers! Review too? Even if it's just a 'thumbs up' or a 'thumbs down'!<strong>


	5. Denial

**CHAPTER 5**

**DENIAL**

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><p>Time is strange. It can pass in great dollops, until you don't know <em>where<em> the last year went. Or, seconds can take months, minutes stretch out into infinity and you feel you have aged a thousand years in an hour. We all wish for more time, but we all happily throw it away. Just imagine all the hours we waste whilst we're asleep!

But to have it restricted like this…time suddenly felt trivial. Hours, seconds and minutes, they suddenly didn't matter anymore. They were insignificant compared to all the experiences I was never going to have: children, growing old, death. Even my next birthday seemed like a golden experience which I was going to miss out on.

As my family discussed "alternatives", I listed all the things I was going to miss. It was October, nearly Halloween. Then it would be bonfire night, Christmas, New Year, spring. The tulips and daffodils were going to rise from their earthen beds, and I'd forget how dismal the winter was. Then it would be Easter; all the new life would be magnificent. Birds singing, grass, hills. I was going to miss the smell of roses.

"…and this would mean that we could keep her nervous system going for as long as possible, which is, after all, the most important thing," Healer Murray finished, and out of the corner of my eye I could see Mum and Dad nodding. I assumed they understood, because I hadn't been listening at all.

Now it appeared to be Decision Time. Healer Murray was watching me with those dark green eyes of his, utterly unreadable as ever. He was staring at me, unblinkingly, intense as a hawk stalking its prey. I felt like I was on trial, and he was the judge, waiting for my plea of guilty or not guilty. Did I want the therapy which would wrap me up in cotton wool, stretching out the time I had left, like too little jam on too much bread, or did I want to continue living and get on with dying?

"I…I don't think I want the therapy," I said quietly, and pandemonium ensued. Mum let out a tremendous sob, and pulled my hand to her face. She cradled it to her cheek, crying in earnest, not noticing that she had almost pulled me out of bed too. Meanwhile, Dad had gripped the arm of his chair so hard that it had cracked in his hand, and he'd jumped up in apology. Healer Murray had started to fuss over Mum, telling Dad that the chair didn't matter, giving people more tissues, more consolation.

The only person who didn't move was Harry. Made of stone. He remained stock still in his armchair, eyes closed. He took in one shuddering breath and then sighed, a melancholy sound. He looked like he had just been given the death sentence. Of course, it wasn't his death sentence, it was mine.

"No, NO!" I shouted over the raucous chaos, pulling my hand from my mum's vice-like grip. At my voice, everyone quietened a fraction, "I don't want it! Mum, please don't cry. I mean, if being in the hospital _all the time_ for the therapy is going to make my quality of living really terrible, I'd rather just…I'd rather…" I looked up helplessly to the crowd around my bed, looking for words to explain what I meant. I found Healer Murray's eyes. Deep green, light brown, our gazes met and we came to an understanding. He knew what I meant.

"You'd rather enjoy what time you have left, Miss Weasley."

I nodded.

The room was silent now. I looked out of the window, where the first rain of the day was falling. The two trees were skeletal silhouettes, imposed upon a deep purple sky. Drop after fell on the window, appearing crimson from the strange light. Tiny rubies on the crystal glass.

* * *

><p>Everyone knew. Mum and Dad had taken it upon themselves to send owls to distant relatives, visit a few of my friends and gather the rest of the family into my private room. Bill, Fleur, Victoire-and-Dominique, Charlie, Percy, Audrey, Molly, baby Lucy, George, Angelina, Fred, Ron, Hermione, Harry – how we all managed to fit in I'll never know. Mum told them all while I looked at the floor, not daring to meet their eyes. Their reactions were numerous and predictable; they all acted in their own way and exactly how I expected them to.<p>

I'd been told before that there are five stages to grief; they were all in denial. All that shaking of heads, wringing of hands, stunned expressions. But what could I say to console them? I couldn't lie to them – it _wasn't_ going to be alright. All I could say – and did say – was that I didn't want any of them to be scared of talking to me about it. I doubt it helped.

It was the 9th of October, one day after my diagnosis. It was the day I was leaving St Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries and returning to my little flat that I shared with Harry in muggle Bristol. Mum wanted me to return to the Burrow, but I told her, for now, that I wanted some time on my own. In reality, I wanted time with Harry. Just to be with him.

Checking out was remarkably simple. I had a few mediocre papers to sign, a few indifferent hands to shake, a few fake hugs to receive. Nurse Jenna's dark beady eyes were distant, sad; she had already started to detach herself from me. The only true goodbye I had was with Blaise Zabini and Healer Murray.

"Remember, Miss Weasley, that you can enter the therapy at any time," Healer Murray told me, and gave me a smile. We both knew that it wasn't going to happen.

"I know. Thank you so much for your help," I said, and shook his hand. His deep, forest green eyes were as murky as ever, impossible to read. Was he happy I was leaving, or sad, wishing he could help more? His firm grip was reassuring, and I turned from him feeling a little better.

"And _you,_ Zabini. Thanks for everything," I smiled, holding out my hand. I gave him a blazing look, hoping to embarrass him once more, and sure enough he bit his lip and looked at the floor. My smile broadened; it was great fun to tease the little poser when he could do nothing about it. However he did take my hand and gave it a small squeeze.

"And you, Ginny. It was nice seeing you again," he said, and when he looked up, I could see no lie in those black eyes, only apology that he couldn't cure me. Even so, he let go of my hand very quickly. At least _he_ was a lot easier to read.

So I left the hospital at one o'clock with Harry, and we made our way across muggle London to the Leaky Cauldron where we could floo home. We didn't apparate – we weren't sure how that would affect my condition. We didn't speak, just walked on in silence, down the busy street and towards the nearest tube station. We didn't look at each other, just sat on the tube, contemplating our own thoughts in mutual, quiet agreement that we would talk later. There would be enough time left to talk.

Luckily, the Leaky Cauldron was practically empty when we arrived. Tom, the old landlord, was behind the bar, deep in conversation with a warlock, so he hardly noticed us enter. Hannah Abbot, one of the barmaids, gave us a cheery wave and offered us a drink "on the house, of course," but we didn't linger. We both wanted to get home.

We arrived in our fireplace of at about quarter past two. We lived was a small, two bedroom flat in Clifton, Bristol. The surrounding neighbourhood was one of the most expensive in the city, with lots of bars, boutiques and fantastic architecture. Of course, if it wasn't for Harry, I wouldn't be able to buy a flat like this, but since Harry had inherited a fortune from his parents, he was able to afford to live in such a wonderful place. The beauty of it was that Mum didn't feel like we lived so far away, seeing as Ottery St Catchpole was only a fairly short car-journey away.

The flat itself was perfect for me. We were in the living room, which had a few comfy sofas, clad in soft red material which made me think of the Gryffindor common room. They were angled towards an old TV, (which I was proud to say that I could now turn on without having to ask Harry) and a coffee table sat in-between them. A couple of banners hung from the wall: one with the Gryffindor Lion and two with the Harpy's colours. At the moment, it was completely dark, except for the glowing embers of the fire which had previously burned green.

Now that we were in the flat, everything seemed awkward between us. We stood in the living room, in almost complete darkness, unsure of how to proceed. I was not only ill, but dying – it changed everything. Did I usually walk to the hall before Harry? Would I turn on the light? Check the phone for messages? I had no idea how I would normally enter my own home, whether it should change now that I only had six months left to live. _Six months_…

I wasn't sure how to be around Harry anymore either. I could see his face in the shadows, his straight nose, skinny cheeks, and scruffy hair falling over that damned red scar. I wanted to reach out and touch him, to show him I was still there, but I didn't know if I should.

"Ginny," he said quietly, breaking that terrible awkwardness. All the things I had forgotten came back to me. Of course, I would go into the kitchen and make us a cup of tea each. We would sit at the table, eating lunch, chatting about normal things, and then we would watch the TV together.

"It doesn't have to change, does it, Harry? We can just pretend nothing's wrong!" I exclaimed, "Let's go to the shop and buy lunch, worry about bills and work, drink tea. Let's just act like nothing's changed! It'll be so much easier!" My voice cracked. He took my hand gently and pulled me into a hug.

Because, of course, everything _had_ changed. We both knew it.

I'd been told before that there are five stages to grief; I was most definitely in denial.

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><p><strong>Thank you for reading! Oh, and if you couldn't tell, I've never been to Clifton. I've just wikepedia'd it. If anyone DOES live there  know Clifton well, and could give me some information, it would be greatly appreciated!**

**Please review!**


	6. Stubborn

**CHAPTER 6**

**STUBBORN**

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><p>I had awoken from a disturbing dream. I had come in through my own front door and shut it quietly behind me. The flat had been silent, tomb-like. I had gone into the kitchen, and Harry had been sitting at the table. He looked at me suspiciously, like I shouldn't have been there. Then, I had gone into our bedroom, and lying on the bed had been some other woman, the image of beauty and good health. She had golden curls and cherry cheeks, and she had been laughing. She looked up at me with the smile of a stranger, politely asking who I was and why I was there. Her voice sounded like a lark's - musical and sweet. I woke up with a sharp gasp from the terrible pain in my heart: this was surely Harry's life would be without me. With another woman.<p>

I sat up in bed and looked around. It was dark, but the curtains weren't quite closed, so the blue light of the moon lit up the room. There was a chair upon which I had left my clothes, a dresser, a wardrobe and a small desk. It was all very homely, very familiar. I didn't understand why I felt so out of place, for this was _my home_. _Why do I feel like I don't belong here?_

There was a pen but no paper on the bedside table, so I write on my hand, '_I want to feel the weight of a stranger on top of me._' I lay back down on the bed and looked at the space where Harry should have been. He had decided to take the night shift at the Auror office (because he said a promotion was coming up and he wanted to make a good impression).

Sometimes, I wished I had a disposable boyfriend. One that I could put away in the wardrobe and get out when I felt like it. When I wanted, I could get him out and he'd treat me like I was a goddess, like they do in the films. He wouldn't speak much, but his breaths would be heavy as he took off his leather jacket and unbuttoned his jeans. He'd undress me too, and say "I love you, Ginny. I really bloody love you," – exactly those words. And then he'd kiss me, and I'd forget how to breathe.

I missed Harry. I reached out a hand and stroked the cold sheet, imagining he was there beside me. Sighing, I rolled over onto my side. I closed my eyes, hoping for no more distressing dreams.

* * *

><p>Harry was in the kitchen in his dressing gown and slippers, needing a shave and rubbing his eyes as if he was surprised to find himself alone. I heard him shuffling around, making a cup of tea, and possibly looking for the paper. He wouldn't find it – it was in the bedroom with me. I could see the unimportant title blinking at me, the date reading <em>16<em>_th__ October_.

Now I could hear Harry tidying the kitchen table, rinsing the dishes and putting on the washing machine. This took approximately twenty minutes. _Now he'll come in here and ask me if I slept well, if I'm hungry and when I'm going to get up_.

Sure enough, he came into the bedroom, shutting the door behind him and picked up the newspaper which was on the bedside table. He sat on the bed, opened the paper and read the front page, pretending not to be looking at me. I ignored him.

"Did you sleep well?" he asked, right on cue.

"No."

"Do you want me to make you breakfast? We have eggs; I could make you pancakes?"

"No."

"When are you going to get up?"

"When I want."

He looked at me, a sad expression on his face. I refused to meet his gaze, but out of the corner of my eye I saw him rubbing his brow with his free hand. I wanted to reach up and take his face in my palms, to tell him to kiss me - but I didn't. I didn't want to give in. I was too damned stubborn.

"Fine," he said. He flung the paper back down on the bed and started to get dressed. I looked away from him, refusing to even acknowledge his existence. I closed my eyes and managed my breathing – deep breath in, deep breath out, just like you do when you're meditating. It was much easier to pretend I was asleep than to enter awkward conversation.

"Can I get you anything?" He sounded bitter now. He clearly didn't believe I was asleep. I spared him an annoyed glance.

"A baby elephant."

He laughed. The sound was a beautiful thing. Then he left me, and I was all alone.

* * *

><p>Only an hour later, I heard the door open and slam shut. Harry was home, but someone else was there too. I could hear them both, taking off their shoes and putting their cloaks on the hook. The second person was a woman, I guessed, because her footfalls were lighter than Harry's. I could faintly hear the vibrations of their voices coming from the hall. Her voice was calm and measured, fairly high pitched but mature too.<p>

It was definitely a woman, and one I knew. Conversation floated from the living room to the bedroom, and the familiar tone sent a small shock of recognition through me. I think I heard my name mentioned. This person must have known me, but who it was, I couldn't be sure.

Not until she burst into my room.

"Right, that's enough, Ginny," the woman said, and I realised it was none other than Hermione. Her hair was a mane of chestnut brown, her dark brown eyes flashing murder. She strode over to the window and threw open the curtains.

"Oh, piss off, Hermione!" I said, and pulled the covers up over my head, so the bright sunlight wasn't invading my eyes.

"Like that's going to happen," said Harry from the doorway, "if there's anyone more stubborn than you, Ginny, then it's Hermione." He sounded amused and sad at the same time. I threw back the covers and gave him a look that could kill.

"_You_ brought her here!" I accused.

"Of course he did, Ginny. It's high time you stopped moping around and got out of bed. I thought you wanted to get on with your life?" said Hermione to me.

"I can do whatever I want, Hermione. Now _all of you_, PISS OFF!" I yelled again.

"Ginevra Molly Weasley, if you don't get up now, I will levitate you from that bed and make you tap dance on the ceiling!" Hermione shouted right back at me. I saw her withdrawing her wand and pointing it directly at my legs.

"You wouldn't dare!" I exclaimed furiously. All the same, I gripped the bed; there was no way in _hell_ she was going to make me get up!

"Wouldn't I?" she asked. One eyebrow rose. Her hair flew out behind her, crackling with anger and control. "On the count of three then?"

Harry grimaced and turned away, seemingly ashamed of what he had done. My eyes darted, panic stricken, from Harry's turned back, Hermione's face and her outstretched arm. The wand was firmly in her grasp, and she didn't seem to be backing down.

"One...Two…"

"Alright!" I shouted. My legs felt weak. I didn't eat much yesterday and it seemed to have made me as helpless as a fledgling in its nest. I clutched the bedpost and hobbled out of bed.

"Good. Now, Harry, you make sure she gets dressed and I'll cook us breakfast. Pancakes okay?" she asked, and flounced from the room.

Harry smiled at me apologetically and passed me some clothes. A pair of faded blue jeans, a blue t-shirt, socks, knickers, bra. I quickly pulled them on, not wanting to look at him, and rushed from the bedroom as soon as I could. He followed in my wake rather like a puppy would, staring at me in adoration. I had second thoughts about my disposable-boyfriend idea.

Hermione had finished the pancake batter and was frying them one by one. They weren't the thick, gluttonous kind that the Americans have, but more like crepes: thin and golden in colour. Their sweet smells were perfect, and made me think of late winter mornings, snow at the burrow and freezing fingers. Harry got out golden syrup, sugar and lemon and put them on the table with loud clunks. I sat down on one of the chairs, looking around; I hadn't been in here in almost a week.

Hermione finished frying the pancakes and put a plate in front of me. She and Harry put on their chosen topping and dug in, the sound of clinking cutlery on plates filling the kitchen. I picked up my fork, uncertain how to proceed. Did I usually have lemon and sugar? Or syrup? Or something else entirely?

"Should I get you some nutella?" Harry asked, and I nodded, smiling that someone had prompted me to act like myself. He got up from the table and passed it to me. The aroma of chocolate and hazelnuts filled my nostrils as I unscrewed the lid and loaded my knife with the dark, gloopy substance.

"So, what shall we do today?" Hermione asked, and I looked up from my contemplation of the nutella.

"Haven't you two got work?" I asked.

"Haven't you?" Hermione retorted.

"No, we've both taken a day off. We wanted Ron to come too, but he couldn't get out of work," said Harry.

"Well, I think we should go to Diagon Alley and go shopping. I need a new quill and some more parchment, but we could go up to Hogsmede if we really wanted, I haven't been to the Three Broomsticks in ages…" said Hermione, but I stopped listening.

It amazed me, the efforts that these two were going to, to make me happy. I now felt guilty about all the sulking I had done over the past week. It made me want to make it up to them, to apologise for being such a moody teenager.

I would go to Hogsmede, and I would laugh and act like there was nothing wrong, just to say sorry.

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><p><strong>Please review? It makes me really happy. You should see me when I get the email - practically bouncing off the walls I am. Thanks for reading! <strong>

**Oh my goodness, you have no idea how upset I am. We've had a powersurge, and all the chapters I've written were destroyed! And of course, being the nincompoop that I am, I didn't back them up. D'oh! What I've learnt: back up more. For you guys, I'm afraid this means a lot more time in between updates and the chapters will probably be shorter. I'm just going to go and cry now. **


	7. Hogsmede

**CHAPTER 7**

**HOGSMEDE**

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><p>Since the last time I had been here, The Three Broomsticks had not changed in the slightest. The ceilings were still low, the fireplace still inviting and the air still sweet. Memories of the thrill of being out of Hogwarts bubbled up from the deep as I gazed around the pub. The people hadn't changed either. There was the familiar gaggle of warlocks, wizards and witches alike. Look, there was Rosmerta, golden waves still framing a round, smiling face. And over there was a bunch of Hogwarts students, rosette cheeks shining from the wind and rain outside. It must be a Hogsmede weekend. Unless the group had found a secret passageway out of the school, and were skiving. Not like I hadn't done that before.<p>

I followed Hermione and Harry over to the bar and sat on one of the rickety barstools. The wood of the counter was soft from all its years, and the stool creaked happily as I put my weight on it.

"Two butterbeers and an apple juice, please," Harry ordered. The apple juice was for me. Nurse Jenna had dropped off my special, extra healthy diet plan the other day. It wasn't exactly one to raise the spirits. Minimal fatty, sugary and salty foods, except on a Wednesday, Friday and Saturday. Five portions of fruit and veg, each of which had to be different colours. Four different potions which was supposed to aid digestion. Lots of different muggle vitamin pills, so I'm making sure I'm not deficient in anything. All washed down with only water or fruit juices. And most importantly, absolutely no alcohol or caffeine – apparently my poor little liver can't cope with it. Yum.

"Yes, Harry, err, Mr Potter, coming right up," Rosmerta said, and scurried away.

It's bizarre, being the girlfriend of the most famous wizard of all time, bar Merlin. Everyone knows him as 'Harry-Potter-the-Boy-Who-Lived' and some people even still call him 'The-Chosen-One'. Consequently, when people meet him in public, they're never about what they should call him. I've heard everything, from 'Sir Living Potter,' to 'Mr Chosen Harry'. Harry doesn't care if they get mixed up between 'Harry' or 'Potter', so long as they don't call him one of his many titles. Trust me; he doesn't like being called 'Chosen One'.

Rosmerta fluttered back to our group, two bottles of butterbeer in one hand and a glass of juice in the other. She put them in front of us, saying, "One for you, Miss Granger, one for you, Mr Potter," with a huge smile on her face.

Then, she turned to me, and put the glass gently in front of me. That round face of hers seemed to droop at the sight of me, her usually so cheery demeanour changing, wilting, like a flower in winter. I swear, her cheeks seemed to actually deflate, her hair loose its bounce in one instant. "And the apple-juice." She looked me up and down, and said in a soft voice, "And I'm very sorry, Miss Weasley." Then, before I had time to register what had just happened, she scarpered.

I looked after her and felt my cheeks reddening. Harry seemed to have picked up what had just happened, for I could feel him stirring beside me. He sighed and gently touched my hand. He understood why I had frozen to my chair, why I was now the colour of a tomato. I had hoped, optimistically, that no one would have heard about my condition. I had wished that the secret had remained, well, secret. But evidently not. Of course, I was stupid not to have expected it. I'm Ginevra Weasley, for crying out loud. It was naïve of me to expect that the general public won't have heard about my condition.

My eyes opened to the fact that everyone knew, I took another glance around the pub. It would have taken a trained eye to see it, but I could tell that everyone in the pub was trying to steal glances at me. Or maybe it was Harry. Or maybe both of us. That warlock with the curly moustache was concentrating a bit too much on his foaming glass, and his eyes kept flicking up towards the bar, to where I was sitting. And the group of students were taking it in turns to walk to the bathroom, so they could have an excuse to look towards us. And the witch with the toddler had even moved seats so she could pretend she was talking to her husband, not staring at me.

My cheeks felt like they were on fire. I bet that they were even redder than my hair, and that's saying something. I felt myself sweating slightly, and my teeth worried on my lip. Usually, I'm not at all self conscious. Secretly, I adored the fame that I received from being a quidditch player and Harry's girlfriend. I never shied away from the cameras, never got tongue-tied or awkward, even gave interviews readily. But that is because the reasons that I'm relatively known make me extremely happy. I love being with Harry, I love playing quidditch. I don't mind when people want to talk to me about them.

But being famous for being ill… it wasn't the same. It felt like I was a freak show, everyone purposely trying not to stare, everyone secretly thinking 'oh you poor thing'. No, it was worse then that. I was a bird, a humming-bird, perhaps, caught and trapped inside a cage in a zoo. Everyone staring, me panicking, trying to get out. Its beautiful wings wanted to fly, to get out, but it was shut in. My heart beating fast. There was no escape for me.

I got up so suddenly from the barstool that it fell over with a clatter. All of those who had been trying-not-to-look jumped, and hastily returned to their conversations. One girl knocked over her glass, and began siphoning the drink off the table with her wand. I gazed around the pub, at all of those people who were dying with curiosity, and left without a backwards glance.

I heard Harry getting up too, as I strolled towards the door, trying to get his galleons from his pocket to pay for the drinks. But then I heard Hermione say, "no," and stop him from following me. I was glad.

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><p>I didn't stop walking until I reached the stile at the end of the lane in Hogsmede. I remembered Harry telling me about meeting Sirius here, and I smiled, the memory of the pub momentarily replaced with happiness and grief. I always liked Sirius. He was kind, funny, and understood my wish to get out of the Burrow, not to follow in my mother's footsteps. We both had understood the thrill of disobeying the families expectations. He had not wanted to be a Slytherin, and I hadn't wanted to be a house-wife. Sirius and I were similar in that respect.<p>

I clambered over the stile and started walking aimlessly towards the hills. If only my death was to be like his. Swift. Painless. He had been smiling when he fell through the veil. I bet that I won't be laughing when I'm strapped to a bed in St Mungo's, not even able to open my own eyes because my muscles are slowly being disintegrated by my own immune system. My early morning promise to try to enjoy myself today for the sake of Harry and Hermione had totally disappeared, replaced by the all too familiar self-pity and grief.

Stop it.

Don't think about that.

With an inhumane effort, I pulled myself together. I had already attempted to heave myself out of the spiral of self-pity I had been in for so long, and I wasn't going to give up now. I don't like admitting defeat. To try to distract myself, I considered mundane things. A cereal bowl. A hairclip. Then the thought of all the sickly curious faces came rushing back to me, and I changed tactics. Try beautiful things now. Snow capped mountains. Bright green eyes with flecks of blue.

I took a moment to look around me at the countryside. The mountains were a deep purple, coloured from the heather and dying bracken. The sky looked like someone had slashed a cut into the dark cloud cover with a knife, and it was bleeding silvery glow. It spilled out onto the hills in perfect beams of delicate light. I'd never seen anything so beautiful and yet so sad.

A loud bark jolted me out of my contemplation of the scenery, and I looked around me. I couldn't see the dog that had made me jump so severely, and I wondered if I had imagined it. Maybe my condition would send me mad. There was no telling. It seemed that I was already hallucinating.

Another loud 'yip' persuaded me that I was not crazy, and I started scanning the area for the dog. After five seconds or so, I saw its golden tail poking out from behind two or three boulders, and I went over to it, hoping to make friends. I had always loved dogs, especially big ones, like Sirius. They were always the most intelligent, the most fun loving.

I slowly approached it, remembering suddenly that this dog might be wild. It might not want to make friends. It looked like it was digging in the pile of leaves, and I didn't want to interrupt it. But no, it had turned around when it heard me coming, and its tail was wagging furiously. Its eyes were not happy, however. It looked worried, or sad. How could a dog look worried?

"Hey, boy," I said, reaching out my hand.

It sniffed it eagerly, and then turned back to what it had been doing. I took a couple steps forward and looked too. The dog wasn't digging, like I had thought it had been. When dogs dig, they go at it frantically, their legs working furiously, throwing mud everywhere. This dog was gently pawing the ground, its muzzle snuffling at the pile of leaves.

Then, I saw what the dog had been sniffing. What was there made my heart stop, made my breath catch in my throat. There, jutting out from the pile of leaves, was an unfathomably small – yet unmistakably human – foot.

"Dear God," I whispered, my eyes opening wide.

I quickly dropped to my knees and brushed away the leaves with frantic fingers. A leg, an arm, a body. I gave up trying to shift the pile and scooped up underneath the lump with both hands at once, lifting the child to me. I cradled it like a mother should, and blew off leaves from its face and looked down. It was wrapped in a woollen jumper and wore a tiny, well-fitted, knitted cap. The baby could not have been more than a day or two old.

I touched my hand to its soft cheek. It felt cold beneath the backs of my fingers.

"What kind of person would do such a thing?" I asked quietly, looking down at the tiny baby in my arms. I looked up at the heavens, as if expecting God to answer my question. Who would so willingly throw away a life like that, when there were people, like me, who wouldn't ever get the chance to even have children?

As I looked back at the child, it moved its jaw sluggishly, a dry-mouthed gesture, as if wishing to be fed.

"Dear God," I said again.

I had not contemplated until that moment the possibility that the child might be alive.

Holding the child firmly against my chest, the dog and I sprinted back towards the stile, back towards the village. My anger at the public and my pity for myself was quite forgotten in the baby's, now open, blue eyes.

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><p><strong>*Sob* Poor baby!<strong>

**Oh, can I just make it clear, that Harry Potter is not mine, nor is the idea of having a list, or finding an abandoned baby. It has all been done before by a number of different authors. I just want to make it clear that the idea isn't mine, I just wanted to have a go at it!**

**Please review!**


	8. Robin

**CHAPTER 8**

**ROBIN  
><strong>

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><p>"Ginny! There you are! We've been looking everywhere for you – "<p>

"No – wait – Harry – look!"

"Why have you been running? What's that dog – "

"HARRY, MY GOD, LOOK WHAT GINNY'S HOLDING!"

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><p>At the hospital, two emergency-room healers sprung into rapid, jerky action when they saw what I carried in my arms. They didn't even notice who was standing before them, such was their anxiety over the tiny, dying baby I held in my arms. For the first time in his life, Harry was not the subject of speculation.<p>

I was reluctant to hand the baby over. I already felt protective over it, mother-like, clutching it to my breast when they tried to take it from me. Then, Harry laid a hand on my shoulder, and I realised what I was doing. I gave them the child, and gripped Harry's hand for support. They set the infant on the cart, a speck in the middle of an ocean, and unwrapped the sweater. A girl, I saw. Still wearing her umbilical cord, a bard of innocence.

As they ran, rolling the cart alongside, a senior healer caught up and pulled off the knit cap. It fell to the floor, unnoticed. It was unbelievably tiny, barely the size of my palm. I picked it up and hid it in one of my robe pockets, hoping it would go unmissed. When I look back on the incident, I'm never sure as to why I did that. Maybe as a token of remembrance. Maybe to prove to myself that it was real.

I moved as close to the examining room as I felt it would be allowed. I heard the doctor say to his two subordinates, "Throw him out on an October night, then give him a jumper and a little hat to hold in his body heat. Now, that's ambivalence."

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><p>On the afternoon after Fred, George, Percy and Charlie had all gone away to Hogwarts, I found a baby bird in the orchard. Under the apple tree.<p>

It was almost too much to bear.

The day that my four cool, older brothers had gone and left me with smelly, stinky, stupid Ron, I had to find the baby bird. Life couldn't get any worse than this. It was like something in my chest wanted to burst, and my eyes were all prickly, and my nose was going runny, and I wanted to scream.

It didn't look like a bird, more like a lump of skeletal flesh. It was small and pink and bony, looking like something from a horror story than real life. Or a funny transfiguration, like when Daddy had turned a book into a raw turkey by accident. The thing's skin was all speckled and spiny, stretching over thin little bones, looking strange and translucent and wrinkled, like Aunty Muriel.

It opened its beak, and I realised what it was with a gasp. I scooped it up in my hand and carried it inside.

"Mummy!" I shouted, running back towards the Burrow, my hands outstretched, as if holding the baby bird up as an offering. "Mummy!"

"What is it, sweetheart?" Mummy called. From the sound of it, she was in the kitchen, and I ran inside to try to find her.

"Look!" I said, the tearful emotion in my heart making my voice wobble.

"Oh dear!" Mummy said, looking at the baby bird in my hands. My fingers and the bird were almost the same colour.

"Mummy, a baby bird!" I told her. Mummy nodded.

"I know, sweetheart, it must have fallen out of the tree."

I thought hard for a moment, "I could fly up on Ron's broomstick and put it back?"

"No, you can't, it's too dangerous. Anyways, you've touched it now, and you can't put back the bird in the nest once you've touched it. The mother won't feed it anymore, because it smells like human."

Having heard his name, Ron came meandering into the room. He took one look at the baby bird in my hands, and said, "Cool!" He rushed over and took a closer look.

"Don't touch it!" I told him, "You'll make it all smelly. I don't want my baby bird smelly."

"Hey!" Ron said in a whiney, indignant tone of voice, "That's not fair. How come she gets a bird and I don't?"

Mummy looked exaarzzperretted, (or something like that) and put her hands in her hips.

"It's not hers. And if you want a pet, Ron, we'll get you one. Some frogspawn?" Mummy asked distractedly, paying more attention to my birdie. Ron nodded happily and turned to walk away, satisfied that he'd got a good deal.

The swelling built up in my chest again, and I said, "What about my bird?"

Mummy furrowed her brow, and said, "Well, I'll rinse out an eyedropper and a box, and we can keep it in there. We can make a nest out of old socks, or wool, and we can look after it."

I don't think I'd ever been happier in my life.

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><p>Twenty or thirty minutes later, the doctor came out of that room. Harry and I jumped up out of the tacky seats, and rushed towards him. Hermione had had to go home, leaving us two to find out the fate of the child.<p>

"Healer," Harry called, as we ran down the hall. The healer looked surprised, and his eyes did the familiar flick to Harry's forehead.

"I'm the one who found the baby on the hillside," I said, pulling him out of his amazement.

"Ah, yes," the healer said. This was not a man I recognised from my short stay in the hospital. He was short and portly, with a white moustache and no hair. He reminded me a bit of Horace Slughorn, except the voice was not booming and the glint in the eye not genial. "So you are. I guess you want to know how the girl is doing?"

"Yes, how is she?"

"What kind of shape she's in? Bad shape. Will she survive? Probably not. I don't promise, but she's a fighter. Sometimes they're stronger than you can imagine at that age."

"Will we be able to come back later and see how she's doing?" Harry asked. I was grateful to see that he was almost as keen to see the baby survive as I was.

"Yes, I should think so. Leave your name, err," The healer coughed uncomfortably. As if Harry and I would need identification, "at the desk. The Magical Law Enforcement Patrol will want to speak to you, I imagine, to try to collect as much evidence as possible as to who did this terrible thing."

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><p>Once we'd set up the baby bird's new home, the important and difficult problem lay ahead of naming her. I'd decided it was a her when it cheeped. It definitely sounded girly. Plus, it had snuggled up to one of my pink socks, and left Ron's smelly green ones alone.<p>

"Her name is Robin," I told Mummy and Daddy as we watched the baby bird.

"We can't be sure that it is a Robin," Daddy said, putting his hand on my shoulder, "And besides, we can't even be sure if it's a girl."

"But I want her to be a robin, so calling her Robin is like a wish," I said. Mummy and Daddy exchanged a look, but I understood what I meant.

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><p>When Robin began to grow feathers, we saw that she was not a robin, but a blackbird. And she was black, so she wasn't even a girl. But she stayed Robin to me, and even though Ron said I was ridiculous, I never stopped loving her. Soon, all her midnight plumage had came through, and she started twittering for worms and beetles, which I gladly collected from the garden. She became glossy and round and fat, and she was beautiful. When the time came, I opened the window and let her fly away into the morning, and strangely, I didn't feel sad. It was more like I was letting Robin fulfil her purpose.<p>

That little baby girl that I found on the hillside must not have had a purpose, for later in the night, we received an owl to tell us that the baby girl had passed away.

It had been peaceful, the letter had said, and she at least wasn't in pain anymore, Harry had said. But strangely, I didn't feel sad. I felt at a loss, and a strange pain had gripped my heart. I had known that baby girl, Robin, she had been called in my mind, for less than eight hours, but already she was a part of me. Not an incredibly important part, but there nonetheless. To have her taken away by the black hand of death was like having the air sucked from my lungs and the sparkle taken out of my eye.

"Robin is in a better place, now," Harry murmured as he wrapped his arms around me. He too felt attached to the baby, I could tell, because he had been sighing an awful lot since we got the letter, and his eyes kept glossing over. I felt certain that he would have wanted to adopt that little girl, even though we were both young and probably not ready. It wouldn't have mattered. It was fate that I had been on the hillside.

"She is," I conceded.

Harry fell asleep very quickly with his arms still wrapped around my shoulders. I lay awake into the dear of night. We had forgotten to close the curtains properly, and a strand of silver moon danced on my cheek.

Robin's life had been snuffed out so quickly and so simply. She hadn't even had a chance to live one full week. It wasn't fair for me to be wasting my life away, moping around in bed, waiting for the moment when my life would be snuffed out too. When I would gutter to a close.

So, I decided, right then and there, to pull myself together. Had I not wished in the hospital for a chance to live before I died? Well a guiding hand had put Robin in my way, and maybe it was to serve as a reminder of my promise. It was time to stop wishing and start doing.

With this resolve, I closed my eyes, and let sleep wash over me.

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><p><strong>I like this chapter quite a lot. I haven't contradicted myself too much, which is always a bonus. Tell me what you think!<strong>


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